A Message of Love (7 page)

Mara’s letter.

He stood, ignoring the pain, and walked to the bar. The letter lay folded on the varnished wood, right next to his phone. A fresh black rose, thorns and all, lay neatly over the folded paper.

The phone buzzed again, and he picked it up.

“Hello Sierra,” he said, voice thick, a tear rolling down his cheek. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. I’m taking you home.”

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Coming April 2012

A Lady and a Maid: A Muurland story

Sophie,
a simple, beautiful farm girl on the cusp of exploring her first love gains the lustful attention of a jaded, cruel noblewoman. She’s taken to the noble’s manor at Westwood, and there descends into a nightmare of depravity for which her protected upbringing could never have prepared her.

Owen the dashing object of her affection mounts a daring rescue attempt to retrieve the unfortunate girl from the web of passion, lust, and cruelty in which she’s been caught. But larger events are afoot, including the sinister threat of invasion of their homeland, threatening to draw all of them down into an inescapable doom.

Publisher’s Warning: This short novel features explicit sexuality and sometimes severe BDSM, including M/F, F/F, spanking, whipping, bondage, needle play, pony play, sadomasochism and graphic violence. 40000 words.

For mature readers only.

Excerpt:

It was her favorite time of the day: watching Owen. She made a sport of sneaking glances at the broad back of the farmhand as he mucked out the milking stalls. His trousers, stretched tightly over that trim, firm backside drew her eye as well, but she was ever afraid his quick glances back at her might catch her in the act. Her father would stripe her backside himself if he knew she was so much as
thinking
about glancing at one of the hands.

“You’d better hurry Sophie”. Owen leaned on his rake, his chest heaving. “Rory will be here any minute. If you aren’t done with those cows, he’s sure to let you have it.”

Sophie knelt down next to the last cow, pulling her shift up to keep what muck she could off of its hem. “You just worry about yourself Owen. You still have two stalls to go you know.”

“Want to race? See who gets their work done first?”

Sophie shook her head, her dark locks swaying. “Shove off. Just get your work done, boy.”

“Boy? Is that all you think of me?” Owen flashed her his crooked grin, and Sophie felt a fluttering low in her belly.

He bent to push another rake of smelly droppings into the wash channel. “What do I get if I win Sophie?”

“I never said I was racing you Owen.” She squeezed out some of the slippery udder cream onto her fingers, then reached under to coat the pendant nipples of the cow. Mooing greeted her ministrations.

Owen smacked the edge of the steel rake against the stall enclosure to clear the offal from its tines. “Tell you what. If I win, I will be at your service the rest of the afternoon. I will do all your chores along with mine.”

She laughed, trying to ignore the imagery that popped into her head at his use of the word ‘service’. “And what do you get if you win? I can’t very well do your chores. I can’t even move one of those hay bales.”

He stood with his arms crossed over a broad chest, his cheeks flushed with exertion.

“A kiss.”

Her mouth dropped open. She snapped it shut, fearing she resembled a landed fish.

“You - can’t be serious.”

“What’s the matter, Sophie? Afraid you won’t win - or afraid you will?”

Damn him.

His whiskey colored eyes gazed at her from under sun-bleached brows, his sandy hair mussed and sweaty. She wanted nothing more than to run her fingers through that hair.

“Owen -”

A clatter of horse’s hooves could be heard outside the barn, along with the raised voices of the other farmhands. Owen’s confident, mischievous look changed to one of puzzlement as he looked beyond Sophie into the yard outside the barn.

Sophie rose, leaning her arms on the placid cow she’d been tending. Several riders had entered the farmyard; at least four were armed and armored, sunlight glinting off of plate mail. One rider stood out from the rest. It was a woman. Dressed in a bright white blouse, with tan jodhpurs tucked into black leather boots, she appeared as someone out for an afternoon jaunt. The short sword at her hip belied that notion though. The woman dismounted without help from any of her men, two of which joined her, the others remaining mounted.

Rory, the barrel-chested steward of the farm, walked up to greet the lady, clasping her hand and bowing deep. The steward the woman exchanged some words, but they were too far away for Sophie to make out what was said. The lady gestured expansively with her hand, and the steward nodded, smiling.

“What do you think it’s about?”

Sophie jumped, suppressing a cry. Owen had moved up to stand next to her, his whispered voice loud in her ear. She smacked him on a muscular arm.

“Don’t do that,” she hissed.

“Do what?”

“Sneak up on me like that, you fool!”

“You old biddy.” He bumped her hip with his, and she made a face at him. The proximity of his muscular body was almost as disconcerting to her as the goings on in the yard outside.

“Those banners that rider is flying look like House Westwood. Do you think that’s the Lady?”

Owen shrugged. “How would I know? I’ve never set eyes on her. I only know that we pay our tithing, or we get a visit from a few of those riders.”

“She’s not as bad as all that, Owen. Father speaks quite highly of her actually. Says she is a fair and merciful Lady. We are lucky to have her.”

“Aye, we could be under the Blackarch banner. Tommy Crowder tells me terrible tales of his family’s ordeals under their rule. Nobody could be worse than that.”

“You shouldn’t listen to Tommy Crowder. He tells tall tales, you know.”

Owen grunted, an edge to his voice. “Does he? So I suppose the stripes across his back he showed me are old wive’s tales then? Vicious bastards beat him near to death.”

Sophie looked back at him, seeing his brows knit together. He believed what he saw. “I’m sorry for it Owen. Even he doesn’t deserve such.”

Owen glanced at her, his eyes distant. “Perhaps not Sophie, but that’s his lot all the same. Wish it weren’t so.”

She laid a hand on his arm. She knew the farmhands led hard lives, and were subject to more than she (her father being a landowning man). Still, a part of her longed for the simplicity of their lives; the easy, uncomplicated joys and the peace that came with the lack of true responsibility. Her father made it clear to her early on that she was meant for better things than farm life, and he had made it his mission in life to find eligible suitors for her. So far, they’d all been fops or dandies from such cities as Wyndhaven. Not a one of them was prepared for even a day of life on the farm.

Though her father had tried to discourage it, she’d always insisted she be allowed to work the farm along with the other young hands. She loved it, enjoyed contributing to something usually thought of as a peasant’s work. Her father, though he regarded it as beneath her station, allowed it because her work at least got her out of his hair. He’d had no male heirs borne to him, and Sophie’s sisters had already been married off. He’d never married following the death of Sophie’s mother while giving birth to her youngest sister Maris, and indeed, he seemed never to have fully recovered from the loss. As a result, he was indulgent with his daughter, and she took advantage of it as much as she dared.

Rory looked over at the barn, the Lady’s gaze following, then led the woman and two of the men into the house. The rest of her retinue was assisted by two of the hands in watering the horses.

Owen picked up his rake and began mucking out the next stall. “Well, it’s back at it for us old girl. Rory will be generous with the strap if he has a high and mighty Lady to impress.”

Sophie watched the strange riders a moment longer, then knelt once more to finish Mathilda’s rubdown. The heifer’s poor nipples were inflamed again, and she hoped the cream would keep them from cracking.

They both worked in silence for several minutes, Sophie lost in thought about what the visit might mean. It wasn’t everyday a commoner farm was visited by nobility! Perhaps the Lady had a suitor in mind for Sophie? She shuddered at the thought, at the obligation she’d be under to see the man if such was the case. She guessed it was probably a discussion of tithes or perhaps crop rotation, but she had no idea why the Lady would attend such a meeting herself. She had a dozen captains and hundreds of men-at-arms for such tasks after all.

“Is this the one? Your man told me she was in the barn.”

“Aye, that’s my Sophie, your Grace.”

Sophie, startled at the unfamiliar sound of the smooth female voice, stood up, brushing the dirt and straw from the front of her shift. Standing in the barn doorway were her father and the mysterious Lady. The sun-drenched yard behind them rendered their figures but dark silhouettes against the glare.

Owen moved to Sophie’s side, the handle of his rake clasped low across his hips. She was surprised at the comfort she felt with him near, for this visit was unexpected. In her experience, surprises were all too often unpleasant ones.

“Milady,” Sophie said, sketching a curtsy. Owen did not follow, a quick incline of his head all that he granted the Lady.

“And who might this impertinent young man be?”

“Owen Galt, your Grace. One of my hands.”

Her father and the Lady had stepped closer, out of the glare of the afternoon sun, and Sophie was able to get a better look at her. The Lady was blessed with a cold beauty. Her willowy figure was set off pleasingly by the snug riding attire, her sable hair up in a tight bun. Her dark eyes regarded Sophie with assessing frankness. She didn’t like the woman’s regard one bit.

“He needs a lesson in manners, Clayton.” Her gaze flitted to Owen then back to Sophie as if to confirm what she was really after. Sophie swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

“Yes, your Grace,” her father said, his expression pained. “My steward will have a word with him very shortly.”

Sophie didn’t miss the glint in her father’s sad eyes, nor the clench in his jaw. Owen’s lack of deference to his superiors was probably going to cost him a thrashing with Rory’s strap after all. The young man betrayed not a hint of fright at the prospect though, and her esteem for him grew more at his bravery. She had the sudden urge to grasp his arm, but she suppressed it, not wanting to anger her father further.

The Lady turned to Sophie’s father. “Might we have a look at her now?

Sophie wondered if the Lady was perhaps after one of the horses that were stalled deeper within the barn. It was well known that House Westwood was always on the lookout for fast horses. There were nothing but mares and one foal in the barn, but perhaps the Lady was seeking a brood mare instead?